Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

in a moment of foresight weeks ago, he’d put aside the taxi money. But there was nothing in the drawer but rusty keys, broken pencils, a notepad full of scribbles, a greasy pack of cards and a few brittle rubber bands.

“Where’s the damn envelope?” he shouted.

“Which arsehole stole my money”, he bellowed.

Max and Irene looked out of their rooms and shrugged while Aza leaned sweating against the kitchen table. She was clasping her belly, as if it might fall off any moment. “Calm down, Paul”, Max said, and disappeared into the room to come out a couple of seconds later with a fistful of marks. Paul grabbed the money and the overnight bag that had been waiting for days now, just in case, next to the hallway dresser. He led Aza out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard behind them that a piece of wood fell off, next to the lock. It remained chipped until our commune split up and I, over my next six years, kept persistently scraping at it. It was the only visible scar that Aza had left.

“Is it time already?” Irene asked, yawning at Max.

“So crazy, right?”

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